Wilful behaviour

'What about her family?'

‘I think she has family back there, but she never talks about them.'

They crossed over the Rio di Sanf Agostin and were quickly out into the campo. 'If s got to be over here on the right somewhere’ Mingardo said, turning into the first calle. ‘I’m just assuming she'll be at home’ he said. 'She hasn't been back since the Signora's death and I don't know if she'd have the courage to try to find a new job on her own.' Mingardo took the single step up to the building, looked at the names on the bells, and rang the bottom one. Brunetti could see that the name was 'Luisotti', which he did not think was an African name.

'Si?' a woman's voice asked.

'It’s me, Salima, Mario. I've come about the Signora.'

They had to wait a long time before they heard footsteps behind the door, and an even longer time elapsed before it began to open. Mingardo put out his hand and pushed it open, stepping over the threshold and holding the door for Brunetti to follow him.

When the woman inside saw a second man, she whipped around before Brunetti had a clear look at her and took one step towards the door that stood open halfway down the corridor, but Mingardo called out, ‘He's a friend, Salima. It's all right.'

She froze in place, one arm still swung out in front of her to give extra momentum to help her flee towards safety. Slowly, she turned to look back at the two men, and when he saw her Brunetti took a short breath, struck both by her beauty and by the fact that Mingardo had said nothing about it.

She was in her late twenties, perhaps even younger. She had the narrow face and skull, the fine arching nose, and eyes of such almond perfection as to awaken his memory of the bust of Nefertiti he had seen in Berlin many years ago. The skin under her eyes was darker still than the mahogany of the rest of her face but served only to make her teeth and eyes seem all the whiter. My God, he caught himself thinking, what must we look like to these people: great potato lumps with little pudding eyes? Solid hunks of some badly cured meat? How can they stand to move around our great hulking paleness, and what must it be to gaze from such beauty at such pale ungainliness?

Mario said Brunetti's name and he stepped forward, offering her his hand, hoping it would be the hand of friendship and not betrayal. ‘Id like to talk to you, Signora’ Brunetti said.

Mingardo looked down at his watch, then up at the woman. 'You can trust him, Salima’ he said. ‘I have to get back to work but you're all right with him. He's my friend.' He smiled at the woman, then at Brunetti, then turned and left quickly without offering his hand to either of them.

Still the woman had not said a word, and still she stood in place and studied Brunetti, assessing what danger there was to be had from this man, even though Mingardo had said he was a friend.

She unfroze and turned fully to walk towards her apartment, leaving Brunetti to follow. At the door she paused a moment and made a small bow, as if it were a ceremony too sacred to ignore, even with a man who brought she knew not what danger.

Brunetti asked permission and went in. He put his hand on the handle of the door and looked at the woman, who indicated that he should close it. He did so and turned into the room. A simple woven rush mat lay on the floor, and beyond it a divan covered with a piece of dark green embroidered cloth and a small pile of similarly embroidered pillows. There was a small wooden table and two chairs, and against one wall a chest with five drawers. In the centre of the table was an oval wooden bowl containing apples, and against the back wall there was a hot plate and a small sink, above which hung a double-doored cabinet. The single door to the left must lead to the bathroom. The room breathed the exotic scent of spices, among which he thought he could identify clove and cinnamon, but it was far richer than those. Brunetti estimated that the total area of the apartment was smaller than his daughter's bedroom.

He went to the table and pulled out one of the chairs, then stood away from it, smiled and gestured to her to sit. When she did, he took the other, careful to place it as far from her as possible, and sat.

'I'd like to speak to you, Signora.' When she said nothing, he continued, 'About Signora Jacobs.'

She nodded to acknowledge that she understood but still said nothing.

'How long did you work for her, Signora?'

'Two years,' she said, a phrase so simple as to give no indication of how well she spoke Italian.

'Did you enjoy working for the Signora?'

'She was a good woman,' Salima said. There was not a lot of work to do, and she was always as generous with me as she could be.'

'Was she a poor woman, do you think?' She shrugged, as if any Western definition of poverty was bound to be absurd, if not insulting. 'In what way was she generous?'

'She would give me food and sometimes she gave me extra money.'

‘I would imagine many employers are not generous,' Brunetti observed, hoping that this would somehow break through her formal reserve.

But the attempt was too obvious, and she ignored his words, sat quietly and waited for his next question.

'Did you have keys to her apartment?'

She looked up at him, and he saw her consider the risk of telling the truth. His impulse was to reassure her that there would be no danger in telling him the truth, but he knew that to be a lie and so he said nothing.

'Yes.'

'How often did you go?'

'I went to clean once a week. But sometimes I went in to bring her a meal. She didn't eat enough. And always smoking.' Her Italian was excellent, and he realized she must be from Somalia, a place where his father had fought, he with his machine-gun against men with spears.

'Did she ever talk about the things in her apartment?'

'They are harram’ she said, 'and she knew I didn't like to talk about them or look at them.'

'I'm sorry, Signora, but I don't know what that means,' Brunetti confessed.

'Harram, dirty. The Prophet tells us not to make pictures of people or animals. It is wrong, and they are unclean.'

Thank you, I understand now’ he said, glad that she had explained, though he marvelled at the idea that anyone could think one of those delicate little dancing girls was unclean.

'But did she ever talk about them?'

'She told me that many people would value them, but I didn't want to look at them for fear of what it would do to me.'

'Did you ever meet the girl Signora Jacobs called her granddaughter?'

Salima smiled. 'Yes, I met her three or four times. She always called me 'Signora' and spoke to me with respect. Once, when I was cleaning the bedroom, she made me a cup of tea and brought it to me. She remembered to put in a lot of sugar: I told her once that’s how my people like to drink it. She was a good girl’

'Did you know that she was killed?'

Salima closed her eyes at the thought of that good girl, dead, opened them and said, 'Yes.'

'Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm her?'

'How could I know that and not go to the police?' she asked with real indignation, the first emotion she had shown since he began to talk to her.

'Signor Mario told me you were afraid of the police.' Brunetti said.

'I am,' she said shortly. 'But that doesn't matter, not if I knew something. Of course I'd tell them.' 'So you know nothing?'

'No. Nothing. But I think that's what killed the Signora.' 'Why do you say that?'

'She knew she was going to die. Some days after the girl died she told me that she was in danger.' Her voice had returned to calm neutrality.

'Danger?' Brunetti repeated.

That’s the word she used. I knew about her heart and she was using her pills much more, taking many more of them every day.'

'Did she say that was the danger?' Brunetti asked.